Page 23 of Alien Healer's Touch

"Good. Because I'm implementing new quarantine protocols. Medical personnel with exposure to unknown biologics will remain in controlled environments until we've verified they pose no contamination risk."

My markings tingled beneath my sleeves. "And how long might that verification take?"

"As long as necessary, Doctor." His smile didn't reach his eyes. "For your protection, of course."

"Of course." I matched his false smile. "And my patients?"

"Dr. Frakes will continue administering the treatments you've prepared, under your remote supervision."

Hammond was placing me under house arrest while making it sound like a medical precaution. I nodded as if accepting this.

"I'll need to prepare additional medication and instructions. I worry about leaving the complex care required to Frakes alone, especially with limited supplies of the Nyxari medicine."

"Naturally." Hammond gestured to Zara. "Officer Graydon will escort you back to medical to complete your preparations, then to your quarantine quarters."

I spent the next two hours preparing treatments and recording detailed instructions, acutely aware of the guards watching me. When Zara finally led me to my "quarters"—a small cabin, likely a former crew bunk, stripped bare except for a cot, the door sealed with an external magnetic lock—I sat on the edge of the cot and stared at the metal walls.

"Lights out in ten minutes," Zara said loudly for anyone listening, then whispered, "Third shift change. Watch for the signal."

She left me alone with my thoughts and the growing certainty that I needed to discover what Hammond was doing with Claire and the other marked women before I escaped.

The room plunged into darkness at precisely 2200 hours. I lay on the cot, fully dressed, counting minutes until the third shift change. A soft buzz from the door announced Zara's signal almost four hours later.

I slipped into the corridor where flickering emergency lights cast everything in red shadow. Zara touched her finger to her lips, then pointed down the hall.

"Security breach in section A," her voice came clearly over the comm system. "All available personnel respond."

Distant boots echoed as guards moved away. Zara pressed something into my hand - a security badge.

"Restricted wing," she murmured. "You have fifteen minutes while they investigate my diversion."

"Coming with me?"

She shook her head. "More valuable here. Go."

I moved through the darkened corridors, swiping the badge at checkpoints that beeped acknowledgment. The restricted medical facility occupied the farthest wing, beyond three security doors reinforced with extra plating.

Inside, the space looked nothing like the main medical bay. Beyond the familiar surgical tables with restraints were new installations—strange apparatus constructed from what looked like parts of the ship's impulse drive, interwoven with glowing alien artifacts and connected by thick, mismatched power conduits snaking across the floor. Along one wall stood a row of transparent isolation chambers, possibly fashioned from modified escape pods, each containing a narrow cot. Two were occupied.

I approached the first chamber. A woman lay curled on her side, her arms exposed where monitoring devices were attached via crude clamps. Dark artifacts positioned around her cot pulsed with faint energy whenever her silver markings brightened.

The second chamber held a man I recognized from the engineering team. His shirt had been removed, exposing silver markings across his chest—and what looked like strange metallic objects affixed directly over those patterns with adhesive strips. The markings beneath seemed distorted, struggling to maintain their form.

My stomach turned as I moved to a battered computer terminal humming loudly, its casing dented. The screen displayed clinical notes on "artifact integration trials." I scrolled through them, horror building.

Resonance testing. Neural response mapping. Marking suppression attempts.

The notes detailed progressive experiments using artifacts recovered from ruins, each more invasive than the last. Hammond had moved beyond his failed surgical "decontamination" attempts—now he was trying to control and manipulate the markings with alien technology he couldn't possibly understand, using equipment clearly not designed for medical purposes. This was an entirely new level of dangerous interference.

I opened a file labeled "Assessment and Classification." Here, Hammond had categorized the marked individuals by extent of "contamination," mapping the spread and pattern of each person's markings. Not as a scientific study, but as a security assessment.

A final document froze my blood. Hammond's personal notes:

"Alien technology implanted to subvert human loyalty. Pattern suggests interface designed to override logical decision-making in favor of alien directives. Removal unsuccessful. Recommend isolation of affected individuals pending development of effective decontamination procedure or permanent containment."

A distant alarm shattered the silence. I'd stayed too long. I backed away from the terminal, turning toward the exit - and found Hammond blocking the doorway.

"I wondered how long it would take you to come here," he said, his voice unnervingly calm. "Who helped you? Graydon, I assume?"

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